


Not a Whisper, Not a Thought

by Epiphanyx7



Series: Lullaby [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I Don't Even Know, Prequel, angelpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epiphanyx7/pseuds/Epiphanyx7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is the weight you felt,” Sariel says. “A soul, and a bright one at that.”</p>
<p>It is bright, in fact, one of the brightest that Castiel has ever seen. It is rare to see a soul that shines so brightly, and with such pure and radiant light. Castiel smiles, basking in the solemn beauty of his Father’s creations, extending his own hand to touch the soul. “It is so small,” He says, wondrously. “So fragile.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Whisper, Not a Thought

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem "Lullaby" by W. H. Auden, because I read and dissected it in grade twelve and loved it. 
> 
> Also because fuck this, titles are hard.

The battle was arduous and hard-won, but at last they are triumphant, the demon horde exterminated, and Castiel lifts his face to give thanks to his Father for their victory. Spreading his wings, he lifts himself into the sky, struggling at first to take flight and then making his way back to the garrison.

He has never before had difficulties flying. Concerned, Castiel joins the line to the Healer’s, waiting patiently to see Sariel. Many of the garrison have returned injured from the battle, and Castiel looks carefully at the faces around him, counting his brothers and sisters until he is satisfied that everyone has returned alive. He is always heartened when they do not suffer any losses in a fight, and even though his close connection to his family is unseemly, Castiel is secretly glad that he can feel their hearts beating in time with his own.

“Do you require healing, brother?” Sariel asks, his voice chiming like bells and starlight.

Castiel extends his wings, telling the healer of his difficulty making his way back to the garrison. “It felt as if a great weight was on my shoulders,” he explained. “And my wings could hardly bear it.”

Sariel’s light dims in concern. “Oh, dear. Allow me to examine you, I would not like your wings to go untreated.”

Castiel’s wings are the dark, tumultuous grey of a storm cloud, the feathers flickering with hidden bursts of lightning and the sudden radiance of the night sky. Sariel examines every mile of the outstretched wings, every feather, every dip and bend and scratch, and when Castiel finally tucks the wings behind his shoulders his brother shakes his head. His own wings, a rosy gold in colour, flicker in amusement.

“There is no wound or strain on your wings.” He says, voice lilting. His tone is softened by relief, and Castiel takes no offense.

“Perhaps the problem is elsewhere,” He suggests, and Sariel nods before beginning to examine Castiel for anything that would cause the problem.

It doesn’t take long before he finds it.

“Why, hello there,” he says, and when Castiel cranes his neck he sees a tiny soul, flickering as it clutches on the very edges of his grace.

“Oh,” Castiel says, awed.

Sariel chuckles with relief. “Not a problem, then,” He says, trailing the feather edge of one wing over the soul. It shivers at the touch, still holding on to Castiel’s grace but loosening its grip ever so slightly. “This is the weight you felt,” Sariel says. “A soul, and a bright one at that.”

It is bright, in fact, one of the brightest that Castiel has ever seen. It is rare to see a soul that shines so brightly, and with such pure and radiant light. Castiel smiles, basking in the solemn beauty of his Father’s creations, extending his own hand to touch the soul. “It is so small,” He says, wondrously. “So fragile.”

Humming a sweet melody, Sariel begins to study the soul as it warms itself on Castiel’s light. “That is true,” His brother says. “This soul is very small.” His light dims once more. “Very much so.”

-

Gazardiel arrives quickly, and with her comes Michael.

They both look at the soul, and at Castiel who is sitting still, trying not to disrupt the soul with his Grace.

“It is sleeping,” he says, by way of explanation.

“It is not yet large enough for a human,” Gazardiel says, sighing in happiness as the soul continues its sleeping journey.

“And much too fragile to be left untended,” Michael adds.

They commune silently before turning back to Castiel, full of questions. Of course he had not strayed near Earth, as their garrison’s orders are to keep the demons as far away from the earthly realm as possibly. “I would never,” Castiel protests before Michael even asks him. “I would never lead the damned in that direction, never, I would give my life first.”

They sense the truth in his words. Tense, Michael finally relents. “I apologise, Castiel.” He says. “I’m afraid that this… this is unheard of. A soul this far away from the Earth? And unguarded, too. They are so very delicate,” and for a moment Michael seems to lose his train of thought as he gazes protectively at the small bundle of light huddled in Castiel’s grace.

Gazardiel looks Michael in the eye.

Michel is… uncertain, hesitant, and unsure what to do. He knows that a soul must be protected, at all costs, as that is one of the garrison’s many duties. But he doesn’t know how to go about protecting this soul, not this tiny fragile thing that would break apart at the very sight of a demon. He does not know, and he does not have orders from the Father to tell him what to do.

Uncertainty is unsettling, so Michael does something he has never had to do before.

He makes a decision.

“You will take care of it.” He says.

Castiel blinks.

“It likes you, so you will keep it – in your grace. Protected. When it is large enough to survive, we will transport it to the Earth,” and with that pronouncement, Michael flies off, his work done.

Castiel wraps his grace more securely around the sleeping soul. “Very well,” he says in agreement, because he does not mind this duty at all.

-

Time passes, and Castiel does his duties. All of them.

He once more writes protective sigils over the shields and swords of his brethren as they prepare for battle. He prays to his Father for guidance. He fights the demon hordes that invade the celestial sphere, seeking an alternative to the Pit. He runs messages from garrison to garrison, and, through it all, a deep exhaustion hounds him.

His wings strain to lift him every time he takes off. Every long flight leaves him exhausted, desperately needing rest, solitude, and time to commune with his Father. He can feel his own wings starting to wear under the pressure, the feathers messy and unkempt instead of smoothly groomed as they used to be.

At night, when the garrison is quiet, Castiel takes the soul out from where it lies in the protective hollow of his grace, and he nourishes it. He feeds it light and sweet sounds, music and the goodwill of the Father. He dips into his own grace so that the soul might have something to drink, and he covers it with the dark expanse of his wings so that the soul might sleep.

Of all of his duties, caring for the small soul is the one he enjoys the most.

-

The soul stops growing.

Castiel is concerned, because it has always grown, it has grown every moment that he has cared for it, and now it has stopped. And when he looks, now, he can see that the soul is still too small. It cannot survive on its own, it cannot become a human. It is too small.

He does not know what to do, and so he draws the soul out of his grace, gently curving his wings around to protect the soul from the wind. It flutters and shivers in his hands, comfortable but not warm. He feeds it, gives it light and laughter and hope, and the soul sips carefully but does not drink, and does not grow. Castiel offers it a handful of his grace, but the soul does not absorb it, instead letting the light pour through Castiel’s fingers and wind it’s way back to him.

The soul does not grow for a second day.

On the third day, Castiel spreads his wings and flies to the Healer, and he waits in line as always. Sariel greets him with a smile, and Castiel holds the soul out in both hands, desperate for the healer to help him. “It does not grow,” Castiel says, and his voice sounds anguished, like a thousand tears.

Its glow has not diminished in the slightest, its purity is still astounding to behold. It is much larger, infinitely so, than when it had first clung to the battered edges of Castiel’s grace during a long-ago battle, but the soul is still infinitely small compared to the beings that hold it. The soul does not want to be given to Sariel, but Castiel insists, carefully nudging it with his hands and feathers until it lies still in Sariel’s hands.

It shivers violently, trembling with fear, and Castiel extends one wing carefully, using the very edges of his feathers to soothe it until it lies still. Sariel examines it carefully, noting its brightness, its health, its contentment.

“Oh,” Sariel says, and traces a finger down the soul’s soft exterior. “Oh, brother, look.”

Underneath the soul’s bright glow there is another light, a different kind of light. It is soft and faint, glowing slowly but steadily, and Castiel extends his own hand to stroke over it. “Oh,” He says, astounded, because with his touch he feels the soothing peace and unyielding love of an angel’s grace, and that is when Castiel understands that the soul he has cared for is also an angel. “Oh,” Castiel says again, forcefully, joyfully, to his delight – it has been so long since an angel was last created, and he fiercely loves his brethren with all of his being. But the soul – the angel – has still not grown, and concern eventually outweighs the happiness.

“Why doesn’t it grow?” Castiel asks.

Sariel shakes his head. “I do not know.”

-

Sariel consults with Hamaliel, and Hamaliel consults with Zagzagel, and the three of them consult with Uriel and Jophiel.

Raguel and Razuel arrive as well, to make their own suggestions, ignoring Castiel’s pleading looks as he holds the small angel-soul and carefully wraps it in his wings so that it will not be jostled by the many angels attempting to inhabit the same space.

“Does it need nourishment?” Zagzagel suggests, offering up moonbeams and prayers.

“Perhaps it requires rest?” Hamaliel posits, collecting fluffy bits of cloud and bubbles of laughter to make a soft place for it to rest.

“Time,” Jophiel suggests. “All things grow with time, do they not?”

All of their suggestions are taken and one by one, the angels attempt to give the young one nourishment, rest, and time. But it does not grow, and when the call sounds for battle, Castiel wraps it once more in his grace for protection, and then he dons his battle armour and heads off to fight the demon hordes.

-

It is Jophiel who eventually discovers the problem, and he does so right after a battle, when Castiel is limping beside him, taking his brother’s weight on his wings so that Jophiel need not struggle to fly. “It is not safe,” Jophiel says, wondrously as he stares at the soul in Castiel’s grace.

“It is!” Castiel protests, although he is loathe to call one of his brethren a liar. He knows that the soul is safe – he has inscribed runes of protection on his armour, and sigils on his blades. Even his robes are woven of protective light and prayers, the sort that will not let any demon touch it. The soul is safer than ever, always, Castiel would not go into battle if it were in danger.

“You misunderstand me, brother,” Jophiel says with a tired smile and a wave of brilliant white wings. “I meant that it is not safe for a soul, nowhere in the celestial sphere could care for it as well as you have.”

Flattered, Castiel stays silent.

“Perhaps that is why it does not grow.”

“I do not understand.”

“If there is nowhere safer for this tiny fragile angel,” Jophiel murmurs. “Then where is it to go when there is no more room inside your grace to protect it?” And Castiel looks around, sees the smoking ruin of the battle, sees demons slain and the blood of his brothers splashed upon the ground, and he trembles with fear.

Where, indeed, might a small, fragile soul go for safety, when demons roam freely and fight to be allowed access to the Heavenly Gates?

\---

"Earth," Michael says, when Castiel presents the question. "It has been decided, Castiel, that the soul you guard will not grow because it has no safe place to continue to do so. And so, we are sending you to Earth."

"Me?" Castiel repeats, stunned and a little bit frightened at the news.

"You have cared for this new angel for quite some time," Michael says solemnly. "You must continue to do so. And so you will be stationed on Earth."

"So far away from the battle," Castiel feels a sudden sense of loss. He has never been far away from his brothers and sisters. He would be isolated - alone, as no angel has ever been. And on Earth, where he will not be there to fight in battles beside them, where he will not be there to inscribe protective sigils on their shields, to write the magical runes that give them strength every day.

"We shall go on," Michael says softly. "Without you, if we must. And when the fledgling is strong enough to protect itself, the two of you may return."

His wings flare out, like sunbursts and the emptiness between stars, and Michael lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We shall see you off, brother," Miachel says.

"Yes," Castiel replies.


End file.
